Way Back When

Whether it’s a helpful habit (or more likely not) I tend to put a show on in the background when I do planning stuff. Not writing, but when I’m doing meal plans, washing dishes, and homeschool stuff, I put something on. Often it’s every season of the Great British Baking Show on repeat, but I also enjoy The Grand Tour, and then I like to sprinkle in various British contests I watch on HBO Max. Like “All that Glitters” or “The Great Pottery Throwdown”.

Today, as I was planning out home school stuff and wondering how on earth I was ever going to schedule some field trips when the weather here is constantly asking Mother Nature to hold its beer, I put on a new show. “Clarkson’s Farm” because in all honestly, not only do I enjoy “The Grand Tour” but I enjoy Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May and keep up with whatever they put out. While “The Great Escapists” was delightful nonsense I have no plan to re-watch, “Clarkson’s Farm” has hit a note in me that has rang so deep and loud that I am now here, writing about it.

Not only do I delightfully get to watch baby lambs being born, but I was reminded of when the pandemic began, and what that looked like. I know it was a horrid global pandemic that has now killed 4 million humans and I don’t long for that to be back in any way, shape, or form. No. What I miss, though, was that for a few months, for almost a year, really, the societal expectations of me shifted. I wasn’t expected to be running around with my head cut off getting groceries and planning trips and running errands and visiting friends and going to play dates etc. I was expected to be at home and to be happy about it.

And I was.

I could *breathe*. And as of late, I have found myself once again going way too fucking fast. I am out of breath, constantly. Not because I am literally running, no, in fact I wish I was in better shape. Rather, I find myself so stressed out I am actually holding my breath to try and slow down.

The kids and I are going out almost every day. Just for this quick or that quick. Run errands here and there. Grab this. Do that. And suddenly the day is gone, and I’m completely wiped. There went the week. The month. The time slips through my fingers and I cannot seem to get enough sleep to make up for it.

And I feel an ache for when we did not. When I did not run to the store if I forgot something, but made do and waited. When days at home were filled with everything we had already being enough. When going out was planned and we did it consciously and effectively. And being home was the *norm*.

I have too easily been led away from that peace. Too easily pulled back into the stream of never ending needs that aren’t actually needs at all. No. No. I’ve had enough now.

I’ve had enough of the running. Of the constant pull. That’s not what I want my life to look like, or what I want my kids’ lives to look like. I’m not going on lockdown again, by any means. One kid is signed up for soccer this autumn and the other is to start gynamstics. We have home school meet ups once a week, plus field trips. But I am going to be more intentional. On days we are out, we can run errands. So that every day is not an out day. Instead, they can be limited. And we can truly rest and not let our time be stolen by pointless comings and goings. We can spend time with ourselves and each other because shockingly, I like us. I like our home.

Magic starts here, at home, with me. So I’m bringing back the magic that was the “permission” to be contented at home. But this time, without a global pandemic and without anyone’s permission. I mean, I’m a witch. If I wanted permission, I’d go to church.

Always Two Minutes Away From Dying

The thing about life is that it’s insane, really. Especially our lives, moving at the speed of light, hurtling everywhere at dizzying speeds with over 150,000 deaths per day and a population that continues to increase. We are anxious sacks of meat supported by wet bones that are controlled by flashes of light sent from a wrinkly grey mass on the top of it. Lives are made and destroyed by strangers taking pictures and a few of the wrong chemicals can kill you, get you high, put you to sleep, or give you a hot flash. There is literally not one single thing about any of this that makes any sense.

Except love. Trite, I am aware. Over said. Over produced, certainly. But when I look at the passed out form of my children (it has to be asleep – lately they’ve been tiny bodied assholes during the day) and feel every last ounce of love that I have for them I accept that I am an anxious cucumber that takes sanity pills every morning and drinks magic bean juice to wake up and am surrounded by energy and wavelengths and data I cannot see and am always two minutes from death if for some reason I stop breathing and know that I would do it all again just to love them more.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

The Chosen

Full moon rises outside the window
Two deadweight bodies radiating body heat
Legs across mine
Claiming me as their own even in sleep
I don’t mind
I have been theirs since the moment I could finally hold them in my arms instead of vaguely curse at them to get the fuck out of me

Tension rises outside the door
Voices raised as emotions are expressed
Two people learning how to love each other again
How to belong to each other
And themselves
I don’t mind
I have been there, walked those exact steps, been overcome and overwhelmed and desperate
And came out the other side with more love than I ever believed possible

Words rise inside of me
Always wanting to get out
Past my tied tongue and my half open eyes and stiff fingers they demand release
I don’t mind
Racing across the page they are the wind in my sails
Pulling the weight from my heart and pouring it on the page they are my anchor
They are my breath in good times and bad

We rise out of expectations
Insisting on making our own way
Laying down the burdens of antiquated ideals
Ignoring the calls for self sacrifice from the same lips that call us entitled
I love him I love her they love me we love
And I don’t mind
The side eye when I introduce my partnerS
Call myself a witch
Or hear my child drop the f bomb at story time
Because at the end, when I walk into the light again, I will never wonder what my life would have been like if I had chosen it instead of accepted what I was given

Perfectly Alright

Community. A term I have known, longed for, been deluded about, and rediscovered. I have been told since before memory that church was community. And since I could remember, I didn’t fit into it. I was not cool enough. I used to think it was holiness or piousness, but upon reflection, that’s fucking absurd. I did nightly devotionals, memorized scripture without anyone telling me to, read theology books for fun. The “accepted ones” had… other hobbies. No, it was definitely because I was an awkward, anxious bitch who couldn’t be chill for her life. Oh and poor. Adopted by some of the rich kids, sure, but definitely the charity case.

I don’t know if American Christians are even capable of community. Because community is impossible without whole-hearted acceptance of the “other”. Unless there are people who are not like you in your community, it’s just a club. And like any club, it is defined by it’s exclusivity.

Whereas witches… I’m not saying there aren’t exclusive, gatekeeping white witches out there. There are. I’ve met them. They suck. But most witches I know are the most welcoming people I’ve ever met. There is no one way to be a witch. There is no one color of witch. No one aesthetic. No one sexuality. No one pantheon (or lack thereof). No one path. So many that overlap and mix and mingle.

I went to a witch’s market today and it was glorious. A) there was cool shit everywhere. The talent of these witches! The art! B) The compliments! Everyone there was admiring everyone else there. “I love your dress!” “Your shoes!” “This is divine!” Short witches, fat witches, skinny witches, tall witches, goth witches, fairy witches, stone witches, card witches, fire witches, old witches, baby witches, atheist witches, goddess witches, green witches, and every other type of witch I could imagine. And we were *jiving* with each other. Celebrating. Lifting up. Supporting. Amplifying.

Honestly, I think it’s because everyone there has one thing in common: finding our own way. Or at least trying to. Not the mysteries of the universe. Not the secret to success, or the key to the afterlife, and certainly not an arbitrary list of rules written and rewritten by white men in positions of power. We are each on our own path and acknowledge and celebrate that rather than trying to get people on our path, the goal is to help them on theirs.

My favorite part though, has to be the style. No one has styles like the marginalized. The expression. The sheer, blissful audacity. The *authenticity*.

Oh, right, and I forgot the very best part. *No one there gave a single shit if anyone else was a witch.* Not a witch? Cool. Don’t need to be. No pressure. Want to talk? Want to do *this* witch thing but aren’t feeling *that*? Cool. Whatever you are comfortable with. Have questions? Have emotional baggage? Awesome, we all do. Let’s begin unpacking it together. Maybe being a witch isn’t for you. And it is for me. And that’s perfectly alright.

Not Dead Yet

In a perfect storm of bad timing, I got a bunch of new followers in the middle of a time when I had so much on my plate that writing got shoved right off of it. Long story short: we all got COVID! I had mild cold symptoms for a few days and then promptly lost my sense of smell and taste. The kids each had a fever for about a day, and then they were completely fine. Satya just got really tired, but pretty sure that was less COVID related and more to do with the fact that she was taking care of Eilan 24/7. Speaking of Eilan, he got hella sick and ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. He’s home now, recovering, and – blessedly – off oxygen! Which is the shortest recap of a month long saga in the history of my writing, but it’s what I’ve got.

In other news, today is a day of mourning for me. Winter seems to have passed WELL BEFORE HER TIME and that bitch Spring is already moving in. I am not okay. I’m gonna have to mow next week and GAH JUST NO. NO. It is JANUARY. And I need to be thinking of when and how to begin planting my garden. And while this is usually something that brings me joy, despite the fact that I am planting a future graveyard of plants that have no chance in hell’s chance of surviving, let alone bearing edible fruit, today there is no joy. Just a simmering resentment at the lack of cold and the fact that I’m going to have to fight my other two partners to not turn on the AC later this afternoon.

Today I am not just on the struggle bus, I am driving it and this is the bus from Speed. There is no slowing down. There is no getting off. There is just endless pedal to the metal refusing to even consider an off ramp. All without Keanu Reeves to make it better. Buckle up, bitches.

To make it even worse, I cannot describe to you how awful eating is without taste. It’s doable, but terrible. It’s a great diet plan, if that’s your kind of thing. Because when you can neither smell nor taste your sugar, it becomes an unpleasant glob in your mouth that is completely unworth the effort of chewing. And so I find myself rather unwillingly on the ‘everything is tasteless’ train. Blegh. That being said, when the only difference between a kale salad and some pie is texture, it’s really easy to pick the salad. The salad at least doesn’t make me angry that I can’t taste it.

When my prozac and sugar cannot help us, what is a mom to do? Target, if I’m being honest. A few days ago I rage bought 14 organizational tubs of various sizes to try to once and for all organize the kids’ room. While rage buying off the app, I also saw some STEM activities hella discounted and rage bought those too. Which ended up being today’s saving grace. Invent, children. Craft in your super clean room. Let mom rage type into her computer and talk to her internet friends while you see how much glue it takes to put a googly eye on a sparkly pom pom.

And also Nintendo. I’m sorry if you are PC gamers, or XBox folks, or Playstation peeps, but the Switch is just unbeatable when it comes to gaming when parenting. It’s portable, for one. So I can sit on the couch and cuddle and do it while NOT taking up a TV screen. I can pause instantly and repeatedly and just walk away for two hours and come pick it back up with 0 consequence. Animal Crossing? Hell yes, dinosaur obsessed daughter, let’s take a walk through the museum and see which fossils we still need to find. Let’s chat with that super cute cat and run away from the bear with the grinch eyebrows. And currently losing myself in My Time In Portia, which, frankly, is one of my favorite games of all time and YES I DID buy the sequel on kickstarter slated for 2022. SO WHAT.

To be clear, I’m not getting any sort of kickback for my advertising. I wish. I’m just being honest about what’s working over here. And it’s not the essential oils I cannot smell, it’s not meditation, it’s not nature. It’s gaming and independent play for my youngins. And by independent play I also mean shouting “GO PLAY OUTSIDE” at the top of my lungs and then contemplating (but never following through) with locking them out. So I guess nature might be helping them. When it’s not raining and gross outside. I digress.

All of this to say, I’m not dead yet. I’m here. I post rather constantly in my stories on Insta and respond quickly to questions about polyamory and parenting and politics. I am determined to get back on a schedule for writing and pumping out content.

Question is: what do you want to read about?

Full Stop Part 1

TW: Misquoted scripture used to invalidate the experience of pretty much everyone in order to force a narrative that leaves old white men in power.

A good friend of mine is currently dealing with – you know what no. I cannot even say they are well meaning but misguided. They are willfully ignorant. They prefer the sound of their own voices as demonstrated by their removal of themselves from social media sites that flag misinformation to the unchecked echo chamber that is @^%&#%@ and their refusal to cite CNN or AP or MSNBC as credible sources but personally uploaded youtube videos are the golden standard. They have no room in their hearts from any truth that is not the bullshit coated, dubious translations of a dead brown man that they have been swallowing for decades. There. I said it. Let’s try again.

My good friend is dealing with internet trolls who happen to be related to her and at one point we both remember them being not so awful. So this one is for her. This one is going to scripture by scripture tear down this false narrative and burn it to the ground. It is going to be the script for anyone who ever feels as if these scriptures are being used to invalidate their experiences. Let’s get to it.

I am scripture by scripture refuting a post by David Jeremiah, a televangelist who announces in this post that he has never experienced inconvenience, let alone adversity, as this was the post used by the trolls mentioned above. Let us explore.

The first quoted material is found in Matthew 6:28-30, Jesus says:

So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?

I know we’ve been told this is about not worrying our entire lives, but let us imagine that Jesus wasn’t saying “Everyone with faith will get clothed. Except those poor people over there. Nobody look at them.” Because that has never made any goddamn sense but saying “Guys. Trends change. No one gives a shit what you’re wearing. Look at your skin because its fucking magnificent. You are all so astoundingly beautiful. Don’t let any asshole in a Roman Times Gucci tunic tell you otherwise.” Because as the illegitimate son from a backwater town during a military occupation of their ethnic group and ancestral lands – I’m guessing Jesus was not magically unaware that death, poverty, and inequality were, have been, and sadly would continue to be rampant on earth.

Jesus was not a sociopath, probably. From all accounts, he genuinely seems to care about people. So when Mr. Jeremiah ends his mind numbingly pathological post with “He would never suffer and die for the same children He planned to neglect.” There are only two takeaways. 1) Jesus is utterly powerless because literal thousands of actual children die everyday (1) or 2) If you die young, if you die from poverty, or inequality, or murder, or tragedy, or you know – an act of god – its because you were never one of gods children and he cares for your life less than the animals he allows to remain alive. Your choice.

Now, to provide continuing guidance of all things bullshittery in your life, he lists 17 (he says 18 but one of them is from the above quotation and I’m not repeating myself anymore than necessary) verses for building courage. Which, I guess is supposed to be the opposite on anxiety? Weird. Anyway. Because I know these verses are going to be used by internet trolls the world over – let’s go over each and every one so that you know what to say the next time someone tries to use one of these to invalidate your experience and shut you up.

Deuteronomy 33:25 As your days, so shall your strength be.

For context, this is taken out of the old testament and is in the center of a long winded speech by Moses to bless the 12 tribes of Israel – in this verse, specifically, the tribe of Asher. Even weirder, it’s only half the sentence. The full sentence reads “The bolts of your gate will be iron and bronze” and then follows with “as your days, so shall your strength be.” Granted, I cannot make any fool proof critique on what appears to be an ancient idiom, but considering I have no gate and no ties to the tribe of Asher – this seems out of context for someone telling me to not worry so much.

Psalm 43:5 Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God: for I shall yet praise Him, the help of my countenance and my God.

This one especially pisses me off. Misquoting, decontexualizing menagerie feces – this one is constantly used to tell others to suppress any negative feelings – be it depression, anxiety, anger, helplessness, etc. I feel like the first 4 verses of this particular psalm are *rather* important contexually.

43 Vindicate me, O God, and defend my cause
    against an ungodly people,
from the deceitful and unjust man
    deliver me!
For you are the God in whom I take refuge;
    why have you rejected me?
Why do I go about mourning
    because of the oppression of the enemy?

Send out your light and your truth;
    let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
    and to your dwelling!
Then I will go to the altar of God,
    to God my exceeding joy,
and I will praise you with the lyre,
    O God, my God.

The singer of this psalm is straight up calling God out and saying he/she will return to praising when he/she is *vindicated*. So no. The meaning behind this scripture is not to “Turn your frown upside down” but to yell at your god until he makes it better. You’re welcome.

Psalm 55:22 Cast your burden on the Lord, and He shall sustain you; He shall never permit the righteous to be moved.

I’m not going to quote the whole thing because it’s 23 verses long. I will, however, sum up. “God, these fuckers are pissing me off. Why have you allowed such rampant fucking injustice? What the hell?” And I know that this is not a man praying for a peaceful end to the liars he specifically calls out *AHEM Trumpers AHEM* because the Psalm literally ends like this.

Psalm 55:23 But you, O God, will cast them down
    into the pit of destruction;
men of blood and treachery
    shall not live out half their days.
But I will trust in you.

So, when God starts bloodbathing people for warmongering – then we can trust in him.

Matthew 6:34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

This one comes on the heels of the first speech, quoted above, but both of those are taken out of context from a whole chapter that is about humble giving. (We’ve referenced this before, it’s the opposite of Performative Holiness aka what Donald Trump does when he ‘donates his salary to charity’ (2) while golfing on the dime of taxpayers and lining his own pockets with each vacation. Also, not divesting from his business interests for his entire presidency.)

Also importantly, the verse immediately preceeding this lesson on anxiety is the again, often misquoted, Matthew 6:24 “No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and money.

(Sorry, have to pause here for my polyamorous fam. I’ve had this one quoted at me many a time. I cannot possibly love both of my partners, right? You can easily debunk this one by a) your partner is sure as shit not your master and b) just ask them if you can love your parents – both of them? – and your inlaws? Or just one of your kids? Yea, it’s clearly not about who you can love. Awesome. Next.)

Wait, what? Jesus was talking to rich ass people right before he was talking about not worrying about what you will wear? That’s not a lecture to a person wondering how they will afford a new pair of shoes for their growing kid – that’s a sass to a man more interested in his clean pressed tunic than on those suffering around him. So…this whole speech was to rich people? Yes. Yes it was. It is actually taken from a group of rather random sermon summations entitled “the sermon on the mount” which is not, actually, one long winded sermon. Considering he addresses multiple groups throughout the ‘speech’ I think it is important to consider the context of each snippet and the ones around it.

So directly after this ‘today has its open problems’ bit, he instructs us not to judge. To not “see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.”

So to be suuuuuper clear – these ‘do not be anxious’ quotes are smack dab directly in the middle of him lecturing rich people and judgmental assholes. So he’s not lecturing people who have anxiety disorders, or struggle with depression. He’s… he’s attacking the religious elite. Those who have to appear pure, and constantly try to ‘help’ other people out of their sin’ while ignoring their own blatant hypocrisy. Noted. Hey Mr. Jeremiah, you might want to take notes.

Philippians 4:6-7 Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Oh Lord, this one. This one has been used to keep people down and poor more times than I have heard the word purity ring used at a 13 year old girl’s birthday party. Paul goes on to thank the church of Philippians in the following verses for being the ONE church to send him money. Repeatedly. This is not him lecturing them on what they ought to do, but blessing them for what they have done. In the same way we send thank you cards in which we say, “Thank you! I hope all your wishes come true.” is the way he is ending this lengthly missel.

Let me be very frank – the peace that passes understanding is not a gift to the unanxious hungry, those trapped by debt but somehow carefree, but to those who have to cut off their family members because they erode their self worth into the darkest pits of despair with their inability to love freely and without condition. It is a gift to those who have discovered that thier god is not the horrible man in the sky they were taught he was, but that they are truly made in her image – gender nonconforming and loves on the whole spectrum.

Part 2 is next!

Better Smelling Bacteria

As an ex-Christian I find myself having rather strange knee jerk reactions. For example, if I am out and about with the children (pre-COVID) and I get a scandalized look from another mother when the word fuck freely flows from my lips, my immediate reaction is not to look down, or away, or mutter an apology. My immediate reaction is to look her straight in the eye and say it louder and clearly enunciate.

But I have a harder time navigating spirituality in it’s various forms and traditions because of this very kind of knee jerk reaction. The concept of “spiritual hygiene” for instance. I can hardly read the words without revulsion. If it’s immediately followed by “cleanse yourself after sex” I must immediate put down the book and come back later. Because after 28 years of Christian oppression, I won’t crack open the door, even the slightest bit, that sexuality, and the body, are any less holy or clean than pure spirit and energy. I will bathe in the sex juices of my partners before I will feel ashamed of my pleasure, my connection, or my body and all of its functions.

Even during the attempted brainwashing, some part of me knew it was bullshit. I used to get in arguments with my cousin about it all the time. We went to church at least 3x a week and every time I was expected to dress up to some degree and at one point I just refused. I was going to wear holey jeans and an oversized, paint stained sweatshirt. Because why on earth would the vast and sole god of the universe give half of a shit about what I, a twelve year old girl going to a rural church in Arkansas, was wearing?

It took me longer to see the through the gnosticism buried in the doctrine of female purity. Virginity is sacred and something to be lost or taken. AIt defines a woman’s worth until it is bartered away. Women have to cleanse themselves spiritually after menstruating, as if the act of not being pregnant is somehow dirty. Women have to cleanse after childbirth, and for absolutely no reason, have to cleanse themselves for longer if they birth a female child. As if the act of childbirth is not in itself a holy baptism for mother and child. Women have to be careful to not arouse men by constantly hiding their bodies. Women have to be careful to constantly arouse men by having those bodies fit male ideas of beauty so as to have any worth at all.

And just like twelve year old me, I refuse. Our bodies are gifts, not perversions. Their functions are mystical, spiritual, and frankly often hilarious. I will not wipe every trace of my humanity away before I approach the divine. I wear this soul garment proudly. I show off every scar, every stretch mark, every chunk of cellulite, every wrinkle, every laugh line. I am proud of my empty womb, and delight in the pleasure and moisture that I receive at any time I choose. I delight in my lips and the ability to speak, but also to kiss. Both are blessings. Hands are made for touching, arms for holding, skin for feeling, and clitorises for exploding. How in god’s name is it somehow more honorable to ignore all of those things, to not only pretend they don’t exist, but actively suppress them in order to be closer to the divine? Talk about spitting at the feet of the gift giver.

Because there is only one reason I have been able to think of that makes any sense. Control. Deny yourself. Denounce yourself. Hide yourself. And do what is mandated to save your soul.

And to that trumpet call of blasphemous patriarchy, I do what I do to judgmental mom’s at the playground. I look it in the eye, and I enunciate. Loudly.

“Fuck. Off.”

That being said, I do have to agree that if you are setting up an ancestor altar, your bedroom might not be the wisest choice. Not because sex is somehow dirty or wrong, but because in the same way I literally cannot wrap my head around the fact that my parents ever did that, let alone to each other, my grandma most likely does not have a kink for watching me do it.

And also, if one has a tooty booty, like myself, and perhaps not get through an entire meditation session without releasing some healthy bodily gasses, incense might be your friend. Again, not because it is unholy, just because the smell might be.

Look, if the deities that be wanted it to be an act of worship they would have made better smelling bacteria. The end.

Enough. Enough now.

In life you raged

those you claimed to love bore your handprints

and cursed you in your final breath

your chains still rattle

your mothers tears echo across generations

haunting us all

your son’s greatest achievement in life

was being the opposite of you

beloved by his children

cherished in life and mourned in death

his peace rankles you still

Enough. I hear you. Your pain is acknowledged.

Your cry for help heard. For your son’s sake, for my father’s sake,

I will help you. I will give you a final voice,

I will hold you one last time, like a mother,

and sing softly that everything is going to be okay, and you are loved.

I will listen to your mother, and your mother’s mother.

I will listen to her father and all those who came before,

I will free them all. The chains will fall. You will be together.

Enough. Enough now.

No longer will your anger burn through our veins, your lack of control assault our emotions, your pain roar through our breath. Enough now.

Twenty years now you have yelled into the abyss. Enough now.

Let us do it together.

I will raise you up. I will pray for you. I will give you an offering to sustain you.

You are not alone. Not anymore.

Enough. Enough now.

2020 You Fickle Bitch

I have so many reasons to genuinely dislike this year. Obviously. It’s been a dumpster fire of a year globally. And it’s not even half over.

But I don’t feel the need to list the ways everything has gone off the rails. We’re all acutely aware, and have been hit hardest in many different ways.

Thing is, I’ve learned that going off the rails isn’t always a bad thing. Like, metaphorically, it is, obviously. Trains belong on rails. Life doesn’t.

So when the stay at home order hit, rather than be apart, my metamour moved in. Best. Plot Twist. Ever. I went from 100% mono to 100% not trying to be labeled because I’m living that spectrum life. I went from 100% heterosexual to 100% exploring romantic, not necessarily sexual love. And my life is so much richer for it.

I’m 100% over the competition. She is beautiful. She is graceful. I feel as if I live every morning just to make her laugh. She is not a foil to my glaringly less desireable traits, nor is she a compliment to my many admirable qualities. She exists wholly outside of me. Her own being. Her own life. Her own sphere of creation. And I love her. And he loves her. And he loves me. And she loves me.

Competition was taught to us in order to make us feel as if someone has to lose. As if there are no win win solutions for what plagues us. And I’m here to call bullshit.

As I continue my education of who I am, relearning history from the perspective of the ‘losers’, and questioning everything that is taken for granted in this fucked up culture, I am realizing just how much we have lost.

And how much there is to take back. Families are not supposed to look one way. Love is not supposed to be an unchangeable, inflexible chain around us. Love is as big and beautiful and ever changing as we are.

I’m not saying commitment is a bad thing, quite the opposite. I’m saying refusing to leave room for growth is detrimental. Forcing love to look a certain way for the sake of fitting in, ignoring your personal needs in favor of what society has convinced you is ‘right’, will hurt you and everyone you care about.

I’m saying I’m done giving even the slightest consideration to what I have been told is ‘right’. And have become deeply skeptical of anything that I have ever or will ever be told is ‘God’s will’. Because it’s almost always the will of greedy, old, white men.

There are win/win solutions for almost every problem we face, so long as your definition of winning isn’t domination/control/hoarding wealth/needing others to tell you how correct you are. There is enough food for all of us (if we stop throwing the extra away). There are more than enough homes for all of us. More than enough resources. More than enough love.

Things I do find there to be a shortage of: therapists with non traditional hours. Someone work on that.

And what I will not accept anymore are the lies. The lies we have been fed a steady diet of for as long as we can remember. Capitalism is the best way. You can pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Family is blood relatives. America is the best. America is a Christian nation. The Bible is unchanging. Black on black crime. Soldiers give their lives for our freedom. We are free. We are the free-est. The most important life is the unborn life. Police are the good guys. Binary gender. Binary sexuality. Beauracrisy is an unavoidable part of life. You are worth what you do/provide/make/work. Wisdom of white elders. Politeness is more important than truth. Compliance is more important than truth. We need to be saved.

The goal for the rest of my time here on this earth is to one by one dismantle the hold those lies have on us, reveal them for the corrupt and controlling evils that they are, and burn it all down.

And honestly? I kinda feel like that’s the whole energy of 2020. It’s brutal. It’s brutal because of what we have done up to this point. It’s killing us because of racial and wealth inequality that white people have refused to make reparataions for over centuries. Because caring for your neighbors has become political. Because we have been convinced that freedom means doing whatever we want whenever we want instead of getting what we need when we need it. Because spending money on war is always acceptable but spending it on keeping people alive is somehow absurd. Because we have been killing the planet carelessly for more than a century to line the pockets of a handful. Because there are individual members of our planet who could end poverty and choose not to.

You know what, 2020? I’m here for you. I might die. I hope to heaven I lose my white priviledge. I have listened to the sounds of others crying for us to burn it all down and the flames have changed me. Let’s do this.